Incriminating Passion

by Ann Voss Peterson

  “We give the police this picture of Hank Sutcliffe and hope he gets picked up for something. They’ll find him eventually.”

  His voice rang with confidence, but Andrea sensed worry creeping in around the edges. “Tell me the truth. We need him now, don’t we?”

  “It would be good to bring home a souvenir of our trip.”

  “That call you got earlier. It was about me, wasn’t it?”

  “In a way.”

  “What way?”

  “The police found a gun at your house.”

  “A gun? The gun that shot Wingate?”

  “They won’t know until they find the body.”

  She thought of the gun Tonnie had mentioned.

  “It’s a small gun, isn’t it? The gun Tonnie was talking about.”

  “Yes.”

  Andrea’s head spun.

  John grasped her elbow, steadying her. “Are you all right?”

  She forced herself to straighten. “I’m fine. I just need a minute to catch my breath. I’m not used to all that running, I guess.”

  He dropped his hand from her arm and looked at her skeptically. “Okay. If that’s all it is.”

  “That’s all it is. Really. I just need a moment.” She stepped across the sidewalk to a line of parked cars. She had to get away from John. At least for a few seconds. She’d never regain her balance with him standing so close.

  Steadying herself against one of the cars, she tried to catch her breath. The thump of the electronic bass, the smell of decay, the desperation hanging in the very air closed around her throat like a strong hand. She couldn’t go back to Madison and face the cops’ suspicious stares and she couldn’t stay here. John didn’t believe her. He couldn’t. Not when every time he turned around he was confronted by another lie about her.

  It was just as it had been when she was a girl. Nowhere to go. No one to believe her.

  The rusted-out car with the booming stereo drove slowly down the street. Kids with nothing to look forward to in life hung out the side window, staring straight at Andrea. One of the teens held something in his hand. Something that looked like a gun. Above the thumping bass, a sharp pop split the air, followed by another.

  He was shooting at her. Adrenaline slammed into her bloodstream. She had to take cover.

  They had to take cover.

  She raced across the sidewalk and lunged for John. “Get down!” She grabbed John’s arm and pulled him to the concrete.

  Chapter Seven

  John flattened his body against the cold sidewalk. His pulse pounded in his ears above the crack of gunfire. He’d never carried a gun. After all the destruction he’d seen them cause, he’d never wanted to touch one of the damn things. But he’d give anything to have one now.

  He raised his head slightly, trying to see where the shots were coming from. Although the car and the kids hanging out its windows looked like typical gang issue, he knew damn well they weren’t. This was no random drive-by shooting. They were after Andrea. He knew it in his bones. He also knew they weren’t going to get her. Not while he had something to say about it.

  He moved closer to her, trying to cover her body with his, trying to protect her. Although he’d known what the popping noise was, he hadn’t reacted. Not fast enough. If it hadn’t been for Andrea racing away from the cover of the parked cars in order to pull him to the sidewalk, he’d probably be dead right now.

  “We have to run for it.” Andrea’s voice rang above the fading thump of the car’s sub woofer. “They’ll come back to see if they got us.”

  “The closest cover is those parked cars.” He pointed to the cars she’d been standing next to when the shooting started. The cars she’d left to save him.

  Andrea pointed to a space between buildings across the street. “We can go from there to the alley.”

  “What if the alley’s a dead end?”

  “It isn’t. Trust me.”

  He glanced down at her.

  Cheek pressed to the sidewalk, she peered up at him, her eyes sparking with fear. But not panic.

  He gave her a tight smile. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  She nodded. “On three. One.”

  He lifted his body off Andrea. Gathering his muscles, he prepared to jump to his feet.

  “Two.” Andrea tensed beneath him. She reached for his hand and gave his fingers a squeeze. “Three.”

  They sprang upright as one. They ran for the cars, her fingers still locked with his. Once they reached the cars, they hunkered down behind them.

  John paused, afraid to breathe lest the teen gunmen hear him above the rap and zero in for the kill. If they were going to get out of this, they needed help. And they needed help now.

  He groped along his side. There it was. His cell phone. Help was only a call away. Among the flying bullets, he’d forgotten the damned thing. He slipped the phone from its case, punched in 911 and held it to his ear.

  Hurriedly, he told the operator what was going on and where they were.

  The thump of the bass grew louder.

  Andrea clutched his arm. “We have to get to the alley. Now.”

  Leaving the line open, he slipped the phone back into its case. He grabbed Andrea’s hand. They sprang from behind the car and raced across the street.

  A shot screamed over their heads.

  Another dose of adrenaline jolted his already saturated bloodstream. His heart pounded against his ribs. They lunged forward, making it into the alley’s shadow just as a bullet pinged off the building to the right.

  They didn’t slow. Footfalls echoed off the buildings to either side of them. They dodged between Dumpsters. John stepped in a slushy puddle. Liquid of undetermined origin splashed up his pant legs and soaked his socks and shoes. The cloying stench of garbage clogged his throat.

  The end of the alley drew closer with each stride. His heart thundered in his chest. No. Not his heart. The pulsing beat of music.

  The car’s sound system.

  John flattened against the wall of the alley, pulling Andrea with him.

  Alarm reflected in her eyes.

  He gestured to the car ahead of them. Rust paint and a cracked windshield was visible in the glow of twilight. It had circled the block and was now cutting off their escape route. A car door slammed.

  A shout and footfalls echoed off the brick behind them.

  “Damn. Some of the kids must have gotten out of the car before it circled the block. They’re coming from both directions.”

  Andrea pulled his hand. “Quick! Climb in a Dumpster.”

  He opened the lid of the closest Dumpster and peered inside. Even on a cool November day, the smell nearly knocked him over.

  Oh hell. So much for the overcoat. And the suit. His shoes were already ruined. And Andrea’s green silk and cashmere coat didn’t stand a chance.

  Another car door slammed and voices bounced through the alley.

  He was beginning to think they didn’t stand a chance either. “The Dumpsters are the only things in this damned alley. They won’t have to wonder where we went for long.”

  “Maybe long enough for the cops to get here.”

  “All right. Dumpster diving it is.” He locked his fingers together, his hands forming a cup. Leaning down, he positioned them to allow Andrea to use them as a step.

  She slipped her foot in place. With a heave, she swung a leg over the edge and slipped down into the muck.

  John heaved himself up to the edge and over. The trash was soft and slick under his feet. From the smell, he’d say they were behind a restaurant whose specialty was deep-fried cabbage with a side of rancid pork fat. And ketchup, of all things. The sticky sweet scent made him gag.

  Just his luck.

  He lowered the lid and slipped an arm around Andrea. He could feel her heartbeat, strong and fast. Her body trembled. He gathered her close. Wanting to shield her. Wanting to protect her.

  What a laugh.

  She’d been the one protecting him. From ducking
away from cover to pull him to the sidewalk at the first pop of gunfire to the plan to hide in the Dumpsters, she’d kept him alive.

  He only hoped his phone call to the cops would return the favor.

  The clang of Dumpster lids shattered his thoughts. He pulled Andrea closer against him. They weren’t out of this yet. Not by a long shot. If the kids with the guns worked their way to this Dumpster, he and Andrea would be just as dead as if they’d taken bullets in the head back on the sidewalk.

  The clanging grew louder. Closer. He groped through the garbage. His hand finally connected with something heavy. The wooden leg of a chair or table. He fitted it into his palm.

  Andrea watched him, the sheen of her eyes visible even in the deep shadow.

  He brandished his makeshift weapon.

  Voices rumbled outside the Dumpster. Tensing, John waited for the lid to lift. Where were those damn police sirens?

  The lid flew open. John willed his eyes to adjust to the sunlight, willed himself to see. The black barrel of a semi-automatic pistol nosed over the steel edge.

  He brought the table leg down hard. A cry of pain rang out. The kid jerked back his arm. The gun clattered against the side of the Dumpster and landed somewhere outside on the pavement.

  John sprang upright, swinging the table leg.

  The table leg cracked against a shoulder. Another yelp. John looked into the pock-marked face of the kid from the basketball court. His lips pulled back in pain, his gold tooth glinting in the shadow of the alley. “My arm. Damn it! The guy broke my arm.”

  “Where’s the gun?” an adolescent voice yelled.

  A siren shrieked over the pounding beat of the rap.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  “But the gun!”

  “Leave it!”

  Rubber soles thumped against pavement. John lifted himself over the Dumpster’s edge just in time to see three boys racing down the alley. Car doors slammed. Tires screeched.

  He remembered to breathe.

  Turning, he focused on Andrea. Face streaked with dirt, she held a bent metal fork in her hand as if ready to take on the world.

  And from the look in her eyes, she’d damn well win.

  A surge of admiration tightened his gut. Andrea Kirkland might look delicate and vulnerable, but she was tough. Tough and smart and—

  Innocent.

  His mind landed on the word and latched on like a pit bull.

  He didn’t have any proof. Hell, everything he’d learned since coming to Chicago should add to his suspicions of her, not convince him of her innocence. But whether it made sense or not, he couldn’t believe she’d killed her husband. He couldn’t believe she’d kill anyone. Not the woman who’d risked her own life to pull him to safety when the bullets started flying. Not the woman who willingly dove into garbage to save their necks. Not the woman who was ready to fight by his side, even if armed only with a fork. That woman wasn’t a murderer. He’d stake his life on it.

  He just hoped that wasn’t precisely what he’d have to do.

  BY THE TIME they checked into a hotel, darkness cloaked the city. Andrea pulled on the red sweater and jeans they’d picked up at a department store to replace her garbage-marinated clothes and studied herself in the steamed mirror. Her hair framed her face in damp ringlets. Her cheeks were tinged pink by the hot shower. All in all, she didn’t look nearly as weak as she felt. Only her eyes gave her away. Dark circles cupping blue.

  She wrapped her arms around her middle. The hot shower might have washed away the garbage smell, but it had done nothing to alleviate the chill penetrating her bones. Had someone followed John and her to Chicago? Had that someone hired those boys to kill them? Or had Hank Sutcliffe hired the boys?

  Although the police’s arrival had chased the boys away, the police hadn’t seemed to have answers about who the kids were. They’d only had hours of questions and more than a few suspicious looks. Either they’d pegged her and John as a couple of yuppie addicts venturing into the city for a score, or they were protecting their turf from an out-of-state DA. Either way, they weren’t much help.

  A knock sounded on the hotel-room door. “It’s John. I have dinner.”

  She hadn’t realized how much she needed to see him until she heard the sound of his voice. Crossing the room, she peered through the peephole and into the hall, just to make sure.

  Distorted by the wide-angle lens, he stood on the other side of the door, a pizza box balanced on one hand. He had showered as well and replaced his soiled suit with a rugby shirt and jeans they’d picked up along with the sweater and jeans she wore. The shirt was open at the collar, showing a tease of chest hair.

  The feel of his arm wrapped around her while they’d crouched in the Dumpster echoed along her nerves. What she wouldn’t give to be able to open the door right now and melt into his arms. So safe. So warm.

  She shook her head, trying to banish the image, the need. The last thing she could allow herself to do was fall into his arms. As much as they’d been through in the past two days, he wasn’t her savior. No matter how much she needed him to be. She had to remember that. Bracing herself, she pulled open the door.

  John held up the box. “I hope you’re in the mood for pizza.”

  The aroma of tomato sauce, mozzarella and pepperoni hit her in a wave. Her stomach growled. It felt like years since she’d eaten. “It smells great.”

  “Then can I come inside?”

  “Of course.” She stepped aside, embarrassed she’d been standing in the middle of the opening, barring him from the room.

  Stepping through the narrow door, he brushed her arm. He paused, looking down at her.

  A shiver worked its way over her skin at the light touch. He was so close she had only to lean forward to find that place in his arms again. She wondered if it would still feel as warm. As safe.

  Swallowing hard, she forced her feet to carry her into the room. A bed dominated the space, leaving just enough space for a simple armoire that housed the television. She gestured to the lack of space. “I don’t know where you want to set the pizza. The bed seems like the only place, I suppose.”

  He looked down at the bed and then back at her. If she wasn’t mistaken, some of the heat she’d felt at his touch registered in his eyes. Pulling his gaze from her, he set the box on the multi-colored spread and flipped open the lid. Pizza steam rose in the air. “Dig in.”

  She stepped up to the bed, lifted a piece from the box and forced herself to take a bite. The pie was hot, the crust crispy and the cheese plentiful and elastic. But as good as she knew it must be, she could hardly taste it. The only thing she was aware of was the heat of John’s gaze resting on her face.

  She looked up and met his eyes. She swallowed, the bite of pizza lodging like a lump in her throat. “What?”

  “I can’t help wondering how you got to be so tough.”

  “Me?”

  “You look so delicate, so vulnerable. Yet there’s something inside you that’s stronger than tempered steel. How did you get to be that way?”

  She shook her head. He had her wrong. All wrong. “I’m not strong. I try to be, but I’m not.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked upward in a half smile. “Could have fooled me. Where did you learn to keep your head in the midst of flying bullets?”

  She’d been scared out of her skin when she’d heard the gunshots, so scared her mind had shut down, allowing her to operate without thinking, without feeling. “I guess I’ve gotten used to ducking after the past few days.”

  “It takes longer than a few days of hardship to learn to react the way you did. I’ve been part of the criminal justice system for years. I’ve seen the aftermath of shootings. I’ve prosecuted the shooters. I know the sound of gunfire and what kind of damage bullets can cause. Yet it took me a few seconds to realize what was going on, let alone to act. You acted on instinct.”

  She set down the slice and twisted her fingers in her lap.

  “An
d how did you know the alley we ran down wasn’t a dead end?” His dark eyes looked into her, through her.

  Wrapping her arms around herself, she looked down, staring at the open box. She didn’t want to answer his questions, didn’t want to explain the hardships that had shaped her. She wasn’t ashamed of her humble beginnings. Not really. If it had been something as simple as growing up on the wrong side of the tracks, she would have answered his questions without flinching. But things weren’t that simple. Her mother had seen to that. Marrying Wingate had seen to that. And now that he was dead, she knew her background would just add to the long list of things suggesting she killed her husband.

  But more than that, she didn’t even want to remember herself. Her helplessness. Her weakness. Her desperate need for someone to believe her, for someone to care.

  So little had changed.

  “Tell me, Andrea. Let me in.”

  She blew a defeated breath through tight lips. She didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want to let him in. But she couldn’t help it. On some level, the battle was already over. She’d lost the moment he’d pushed her out of the path of that black truck. “I didn’t grow up in Wingate’s social circles.”

  He nodded, as if he’d surmised that.

  “My father left when I was young. My mother did her best, I suppose, but there was never very much money.” She shook her head. “But money was never important to me. Not then and not now. I know that’s hard to believe.”

  “I admit at first it was.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m not sure.”

  She supposed that was better than she could have hoped. At least he hadn’t made up his mind against her the way most people had. “I didn’t know how good I had it until I ran away.”

  “You ran away? Why?”

  “My mother needed men the way some people need booze or pills. She always made sure she had one around.” She tried to push a laugh from her throat, but the sound lodged and turned into a groan. “I didn’t understand how dependent she was on them until one of her boyfriends came into my room one night.”